Chapter 2
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Curse persuasive essays, and also insane best friends.
Mirabelle
“Take the job,” Fawn—my best friend, roommate, and co-conspirator in all things—says. Hand propped at her chin, she lies across her bed, on her stomach, and scrolls through her laptop. “Holy—” she swears, “—take the job, Mira.”
Sitting on the other side of our room in my bed with a heating pad on and pressed to a sore spot I haven’t been able to get out of my back for roughly, oh, four years, I scroll on my own laptop. Picture after picture of Damion Anders slips on by.
Quite apparently, he made People’s Sexiest Man Alive list last year. He didn’t top it, but he’s on it. I scroll through the list of men in awkwardly “seductive” positions, grateful to note that Mr. Anders is blessedly not among them.
This is…weird.
Objectifying.
I do not like it.
So I close the tab when Mr. Anders’s stone-faced image appears, looking like it was taken from the Who’s Who section of a high school yearbook.
“What about rent here?” I ask. “You won’t be able to afford this place on your own.” As it stands, we share a single-bedroom apartment. And struggle to make ends meet every single month.
“You’ll be making a million dollars. To relieve the tax burden, you can make charitable donations to your favorite pitiful organization.” Rolling over, she pulls her laptop onto her stomach, lifts her arm, and points down at herself. “AKA, me.”
“You really haven’t found anything concerning? Like…a conspiracy about how he probably keeps bodies in his basement or attacks women for sport?”
Her dark eyes cut to me. “You’ve cleaned his basement.”
“I’ve cleaned his vacation basement. You keep bodies in your home basement.”
“You’ve been cleaning his home basement this year, haven’t you? You said he bought the place. Find any bodies down there?”
Well, no. But also, this is like a second home basement. Bodies are always kept in a primary home basement. This information, however, I don’t find necessary to share, so I merely frown at Fawn, lip jutted with rampant disapproval.
Her eyes roll. “It’s a great opportunity. And I wouldn’t tell you to do it if I thought it was dangerous.”
“You are blinded by money.”
“A hundred grand is a lot of money. What’s the worst that could happen in exchange for it?”
“I could be brutalized and murdered by a billionaire for sport. We both know that just being a billionaire is unethical. Their moral code does not exist.”
“Damion’s old money. He inherited his wealth from his father, who inherited it from his father, who inherited it from his father, and so on.
Also, I keep finding articles about him volunteering at weird places.
” She turns her computer toward me. “He literally dressed up as Batman for some sick kids in the hospital a year ago, and he’s done different heroes periodically in the past.”
“It’s publicity stunts, to distract from his thriving hobby as a murderer. Also, he has the gravelly Batman voice au naturale.” I gasp. “He’s a billionaire, with a hyper-realistic bat costume at the ready and the voice for it. Fawn, what if—”
“What if you come back to reality? I don’t think he’s a murderer, and I don’t think he’s Batman, but if you really do think he’s Batman, you can’t think he’s a murderer, because Batman doesn’t do that, and, also, wouldn’t you like to work for Batman, Mira? Hm? Wouldn’t that be fun?”
I would love to work for Batman.
I take a moment, consider the option.
Then I remember to actually come back to reality—you know, that place where Batman doesn’t exist.
Reality kinda bombs, ngl.
Fawn smirks, continuing, “Go be Lady Alfred, Mira. I give you my blessing.”
“Oh boy,” I drawl. “Thanks.”
Fawn mutters for a minute, then declares, “Roughly five thousand a month, minus taxes, no room or board to worry about. Are meals included in this deal?”
“Um. I’ll be making them for him, but I don’t know if he’ll let me eat with him, or if I’ll be bringing his food to him then going to fend off the scraps in the kitchen by myself.”
Heartless, Fawn waves a hand. “Right, right, yes. You’ll probably fend for scraps right before you fall asleep on the hearth by the fireplace, Cinderella. Be realistic—do you think meals will be included.”
Realistic. I’m good at realistic. “I don’t know.”
“Okay, so a couple hundred dollars a month for food and personal items. Heck, I’ll give it a thousand.
You still have four thousand dollars left.
Every month. To donate. To me. Naturally.
” She scoffs and smiles. “Oh, what am I saying? I’m more benevolent than that.
I shall only request a modest three thousand per month, leaving you an entire extra thousand to play with. ”
I slump. “Fawn…be realistic.”
“I’m terrible at realistic. I prefer to be fantastic.”
In that moment, I receive a Discord notification. From Fawn. In our private server. So I deign to open the program and stare at the Google Sheets link she’s sent me. “What’s this?”
“Oh, if only it were labeled.”
I huff, because I can see that it’s labeled, but I do not like how it is labeled.
Considering it is labeled: The Maid Scheme.
“What is this?” I repeat. “The Maid Scheme? Am I robbing him or something? Also, do you have to use the word maid? If I take this position, I’ll be his housekeeper, not his maid.” Because if I were his maid, I’d be his personal maid, and that’s simply inappropriate.
“They’re synonyms, and so long as you maintain to dress in frilly pastel aprons with matching hair scarves, you will always be a Victorian maid in the hearts of anyone who looks at you.
Not to mention, we work at Maid for You, so I’m afraid the title is all a part of our current branding.
Why don’t you actually click on the spreadsheet before you ask me any more stupid questions? ”
My nose wrinkles, on account of how I don’t want to, but I force myself to open this scheme of hers anyway.
The first thing that catches my eye is the Baconian essay organized into the opening boxes. It is titled Reasons Damion Probably Won’t Cut You Up and Eat You and it begins In this essay I will.
I blink at a paragraph going on about how he did that Batman thing.
Then I ask, “How did you make this in the last three minutes?”
“I’m gifted.”
Right. Gifted. And fantastic. And completely mental.
Like all good friends should be, I suppose.
“Why is there a financial guide with information on cruises?” I ask as I scroll away from the essay to find a color-coded package about which cruises I will be going on and when I will be going on them over the course of the next few years of employment.
“He offered you benefits, that means you should have PTO. What should you do with your PTO? Go on cruises to exotic countries and find the love of your life amongst the locals. I know that’s important to you, and—once again—I am ever so benevolent.
” Fawn flops her arm off the bed and pushes her glasses up on her petite nose.
“All this information is in the spreadsheet, Mira.”
The spreadsheet is overwhelming, and also dumb. “I will need my PTO for when I get sick.”
“You should still be allowed a vacation, and with how much he’s paying you, it won’t matter if it’s paid or not.”
“Oh? I thought over half my income was going to the Sad Little Fawn Foundation.”
Her lips quip up. “Excellent charity. One hundred percent of the proceeds go directly to Sad Little Fawn. Isn’t it wonderful that even with your angelic giving, you’ll be able to go on two cruises a year?”
I drone, “Yeah, that’s really…something.”
Her teeth flash in a wicked grin. “We at the Sad Little Fawn Foundation appreciate your philanthropy.”
“Why don’t I get more information about this position next week when I clean Mr. Anders’s house and see if there’s enough space in the adjacent building he’s talking about for the both of us?”
Fawn’s smile disappears, and a prickle of unease runs down my spine.
I’m used to saying the wrong thing whenever I forget to smile or think through every line very carefully before blurting whatever I’m actually thinking, but after the past seven years of being around Fawn and learning that her filter is about as effective as a hula hoop, I’ve passed on censorship around her.
Sometimes, that means I say or do something wrong, and we have to have a conversation or exchange essays about it.
“Everything okay?” I ask, a little too fast.
“You’d drag me along with you into the lap of luxury and free rent?” She regains her usual demeanor and throws her hand to her heart. “I can’t believe you don’t want to donate to my livelihood that badly.”
Maybe it’s a little too soon to even allude to an offer like this.
It would involve letting Mr. Anders know that I have a roommate and she’d need to come with me, and if this is actually a very dangerous situation, I’d never be able to forgive myself for dragging Fawn into it, too.
Deflating, I close my laptop and sink into bed.
“You’re right. It’s much better to just support the Sad Little Fawn Foundation.
It’s presumptuous of me to invite you to move with me before I know more.
As it stands, I have never seen inside the building he’s talking about, which means it’s definitely not been cleaned in a good long time.
It’s probably a shed, a shack even. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s talking about the building back behind the house that I’ve always thought held the pool supplies.
Next to the house, it’s seemed tiny, so I bet it’s small. And full of spiders and snakes.”
“Oh, so you don’t want to live with me anymore?”
I pin my troublesome friend with a look. “Are you determined to be offended no matter what I say?”
“Yes, actually. Thank you for asking.” Her mood levels.
“The bottom line is this: I can’t find anything that makes me wary about this guy.
I think you should get more information about his expectations and veer toward heavily considering taking this opportunity.
If he doesn’t mind another basic freeloader in the space he’s providing you with and if bringing me along would make you more comfortable, I am more than game to take rent out of my expenses.
Also, I think probably limiting the change we both have to experience is best for us and our mental healths. ”
Truer words have never been said.
Blowing out a breath, I say, “Okay…I’ll get more information next week and let you know what I learn.”
Closing her own laptop, Fawn pops upright and smiles. “Great, I’ll start packing.”
“Isn’t it a little too soon to—”
“Nope. It never hurts to be prepared.”
Fair enough.